


My King's Protector

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Merlin (TV) Fusion, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Execution, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince Derek Hale, Sheriff Stilinski is Not Stiles Stilinski's Parent, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Violence, Warlock Stiles Stilinski, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Stiles is a young mage who moved to Beacon Hills to learn how to use his powers, but the day he stepped onto the palace grounds was the day he stepped into his destiny.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75





	1. The Beginning of a Legend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bilesandthesourwolf (snb123)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snb123/gifts).



> For bilesandthesourwolf - Happy Birthday!
> 
> Please note, this is not one of my current ongoing works in progress. I do want to write more of it but it won’t be updated anytime soon. It could be months before it updates, or it could be a year. I do have plans to continue this AU, but it will not be updated for a long time, or until I work through my other WIPs. Thank you for your understanding.

The dry husks of leaves crackled beneath their feet, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling their lungs as they walked along the muddy train and further into the woods. The trees towered over them, wavering beams of light shining through the canopy. The leaves were beginning to change, a few trees turning golden or auburn as the autumn chill hung in the air.

Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and delicate flowers grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, orange, yellow, and blue.

He ducked under the low hanging branches, brushing aside the spindly limbs that reached out for him.

He followed the path that was worn through the undergrowth, smiling as he passed traders, merchants, and messengers who passed him.

He made his way across the grassy knolls, his feet slowing as he approached the gates of the kingdom. The surrounding walls were made of sandstone, the beige walls towering over him as he made his way over to the guards at the gates.

He dug into his pockets, pulling out the crumpled pieces of parchment and handing them to the guard. As he stepped into the archway, he caught a glimpse of the city beyond the walls. The tall buildings were made of sandstone and marble, the pale bricks juxtaposed by the dark grey slate of the roofing tiles.

The streets of the lower town were lined with tall buildings—houses and storefronts. The rest of the kingdom was tiered, up to the castle that stood proud above it all.

“First time in Beacon Hills?” the guard remarked.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, tearing his eyes away from the city. “How did you know?”

“The look on your face,” the guard replied. “Awe struck. My guess is you’re from the country?”

“Farmlands up north,” Stiles admitted. “We have wooden houses with straw roofs, picket fences and fields of crops—nothing like this.”

The guard smiled fondly at the young man, reading over the papers once more before handing them back to Stiles.

“John is in the upper city,” the guard said. “Just follow the roads up to the castle.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, taking the papers back from the guard and stashing them in his pocket.

“Welcome to Beacon Hills.” The guard offered him a friendly smile. “Just stay out of trouble.”

Stiles made his way up through the markets, passing the small fruit stalls, stands with bundles of cloth and tailored clothes, and merchants. A crowd gathered in the courtyard, a buzz of chatter filling the cool air as the thundering drums echoed in Stiles’ chest.

He wove his way through the crowd, slowing to a stop as he looked at the gallows that stood in the centre of the town square.

Across the square, two guards dragged a man out into the open. He was wearing a thin cotton shirt, left ragged and untucked and stained with mud and blood. His long dark hair was unkempt, falling out of the tie that held it back and hanging before his face. Beneath the shadows, Stiles caught a glimpse of his face. He was a youth—barely in his teens. His hands and feet were shackled, the heavy wrought-iron chains clattering as they dragged against the cobblestones. He put up no fight as the guards carried him over to the gallows.

“Let this serve as a lesson to all,” a deep voice rang across the space.

Stiles looked up at the man on the balcony. His long dark hair was sleeked back from his face. A short, groomed beard shadowed his jaw line, his dark features and tanned skin contrasting the pale depths of his peridot green eyes.

He wore a thick black coat with fine gold embroidery, tailored to sit on his broad shoulders. A golden pendant hung around his neck, gleaming in the sunlight.

King Alexander Hale.

“This man, Julius Baccari, is adjudged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic,” the king proclaimed. “And pursuant to the laws of Beacon Hills, I, Alexander Hale, have decreed that such practices are banned on penalty of death.”

Stiles swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat. His heart beat rose, hammering against his tightening chest.

“I pride myself as a fair and just king. But for the crime of sorcery, there is but one sentence I can pass."

The king nodded to the guards.

They hauled the prisoner onto the stand and fastened the noose around his neck. The man did not even lift his head, his eyes vacant and his body sagging forward, defeated.

The guards stepped back.

Stiles watched on, sickened and helpless as the executioner stepped forward.

The drumming grew louder, rising with the deafening thunder of his racing heartbeat.

There was a loud thud as the executioner pulled the lever and the floor beneath the man dropped. The crack of the rope rang out across the square.

Stiles flinched, turning his face away. Searing pain enveloped his lungs as he forgot to breath.

He opened his mouth, gasping for air. He drew in a deep breath, his chest aching as his racing heart beat pounded against his ribs.

“When I came to this land, this kingdom was mired in chaos,” the king continued. “But with the people's help, magic was driven from the realm. So I declare a festival to celebrate twenty years since the great dragon was captured and Beacon Hills was freed from the evil of sorcery. Let the celebrations begin.”

There was a quiet chatter among the crowd, elation and joy ringing out, but it fell silent as the heartbreaking wail of a woman cried out.

Stiles turned, looking at the woman who stood at the front of the crowd.

Her pale, ashy-white skin was wrinkled, twisted and scarred. She almost seemed inhuman. Her long raven-black hair hung around her shoulders, cascading down her back. Despite her scarred and worn face, she wasn’t old; she couldn’t have been more than thirty-five years old.

“There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic,” she said, her voice ringing out across the town square. Glistening tears streamed down her pale cheeks, clearing tracks through the dirt. “It is _you._ You, with your hatred and your ignorance.”

King Alexander straightened slightly, his expression composed as he looked down on the woman.

“We were the overlooked—the Emissaries,” the woman said, bitterness and hatred adding an edge to her voice. “It was a mistake that you should never have made, because I made an oath of my own: from virgins to warriors, from healers, philosophers and guardians, to loan me their power so I could teach the real monsters that their monstrous actions will never be overlooked.”

She took a step forward, her dark eyes burning with livid rage as she levelled her glare on the king.

“You took my son. And I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth… A son for a son.”

Without another word, the woman vanished into wisps of smoke that drifted through the air and disappeared into nothingness.

There was a moment of tense silence before everyone turned and went about their business.

Stiles stood still for a second, staring at where the woman had stood. He swallowed hard, turning away from the gallows and heading across the square to where a guard stood.

“Where would I find John Stilinski, the court physician?” he asked.

The guard gave him directions that led him across the courtyard, up a flight of stairs and down a hallway, to a heavy oak door with a sign on it with painted lettering that read ‘ _Court Physician_ ’.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, looking about the room.

The walls were covered in large shelves full of old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.

In the centre of the room was an old wooden table, covered in scattered vials and bottles of coloured liquids, and mortar and pestle, bundles of dried herbs and flowers, and a few books that lay open—their worn pages covered in scrawls of black ink.

More bundles of herbs hung above the small window, next to a cabinet of bowl, boxes, and bottles.

“Hello?” Stiles said quietly, stepping further into the room.

There was a small platform that stretched around the room, a mezzanine that allowed them to reach the higher bookshelves.

Atop the mezzanine stood a man with thinning brown hair, dressed in a faded grey coat.

“John?”

The man let out a surprised yelp, staggering backwards. There was a loud crack as the wooden railing splintered, the banister breaking as the man fell backwards.

Stiles’ eyes lit up with a golden glow, his breath rising into his throat as time seemed to slow. He glanced across the room, spying the man’s cot. With a sweep of his hands, he sent it flying across the room, just in time to break the man’s fall.

John sat upright, shoving aside the blankets as he rose to his feet and turned on Stiles. “What did you just do?”

“Um—” Stiles chocked on his words, staggering backwards as the man advanced towards him.

“Tell me,” John demanded.

“I have no idea what happened,” Stiles lied.

“If anyone had seen that—”

“No, that was nothing to do with me,” Stiles interrupted, taking another step back.

“I know what it was,” John told him. “I want to know where you learnt it!”

“Nowhere,” Stiles answered.

“How do you know magic?” John demanded.

“I don't.”

“Where did you study? Answer me!”

“I've never studied or been taught,” Stiles answered.

“Are you lying?”

“What do you want me to say?” Stiles said, pleadingly.

“The truth.”

“I was born like this,” Stiles admitted.

“That's impossible.” John paused for a moment, looking the young man up and down. “Who are you?”

“I’m Stiles,” he answered.

“Claudia's son?” John said, a fond smile lifting the corners of his lips.

“Yes.”

“You're not meant to be here till Wednesday,” John said.

“It is Wednesday,” Stiles told him.

“Huh,” John muttered.

He shook his head and took a second to compose himself.

“You’d best put your bag in there,” he said, pointing to a door across the room.

Stiles nodded and made his way over to the door. He paused for a moment, turning back to John. “You won’t say anything about…”

His voice trailed off as his dark eyes flitted from John to the bed and the broken railing.

“No,” John reassured him.

“Thank you,” Stiles replied, turning back to the door.

“Although, Stiles,” John started, making Stiles pause. “I should thank you.”

Stiles offered him a kind smile and nodded before stepping into his room.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. There was a bed in the centre of the room, pushed back up against the far wall. A small table sat beside the bed and an old wooden cupboard was pushed up beside the door. His bag lay at the foot of the wardrobe.

The small space was lit by the flickering glow of the candles that sat on the table beside the bed, the melted wax dripping down the sides.

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the chatter of the kingdom as night settled. He rose from the bed and stepped over to the small window. He pulled the old latch up and pushed the window open, leaning against the window sill as he looked out across the towns.

The windows were lit by lanterns and candles, the glimpses of golden glow spread across the town like starlight across the dark abyss of the night sky.

The kingdom was quiet, the only noise that disturbed the quiet was the guards marching across the cobblestones, the sound of nocturnal animals and stirring livestock, and the music and raucous laughter that echoed across the square from the tavern.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, letting the cool night air seep into his lungs, calming him.

He couldn’t help but smile as he embraced the feeling that something was about to change.

John carried a candle over to the table, setting it down as he picked up the wrinkled parchment of the letter that Stiles had given him. He recognised the handwriting, the elegant scrawls of ink across the page.

_My dearest John,_

_I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust._

_It is every mother's fate to think her child is special.  
Yet I would give my life that Stiles were not._

_Ours is a small village and he is so clearly at odds with people  
here that if he were to remain, I fear what will become of him._

_He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone that might  
help him find a purpose for his gifts._

_I beg you, if you understand a mother’s love for her son, keep him safe._

_And may God watch over you both._

_Claudia._

John read the letter again, memorising every word—every curve and flick of her handwriting.

His eyes drifting from Claudia’s writing to the door across the room.

“I’ll keep him safe,” John whispered, folding up the letter. “I promise.”

He held the paper over the wavering flame of the candle, watching as the parchment caught fire. He held it up, watching as the fire consumed the paper, before letting it drop to the table where the flames destroyed the last of the parchment, leaving only a pile of charred ash.

The sound of the celebrations echoed through the hall of the castle.

The young woman stood by the window, the glow of the candle light catching her face as she stared out the window. Her long brown hair was pulled back from her face, pinned into place by a bejewelled hair pin.

“Laura.”

“Yes?” Laura replied, startled. She turned away from the window and looked at the man who walked towards her.

“Why are you not joining us?” the king asked, stepping over to his ward’s side.

“I don't think a man’s execution is cause for a celebration,” Laura answered honestly.

Her eyes drifted away from the man’s face and back out the window to the square where the gallows still stood.

“That poor mother,” she muttered.

“It was justice for what he'd done,” the Alexander replied bluntly

“To whom?” Laura asked. “He practised magic, but he did not hurt anyone.”

“You were not around twenty years ago. You have no idea,” Alexander said, anger adding an edge to his voice.

“How long will you punish people for what happened then?”

“Until they realise there is no room for magic in my kingdom.”

Laura turned away from him, staring out at the starry night sky that hung over the kingdom.

“You will be with me when I greet Lady Helen,” he said with finality.

“I want no part of this,” Laura argued.

“I am your guardian. I expect you to do as I ask,” Alexander said with finality. He drew in a deep breath, composing himself. “If you show me no respect, at least respect our guest.”

Alexander turned, storming away down the hallway.

“The more brutal you are, the more enemies you'll create,” Laura called after him.

_“Stiles_.”

Stiles gasped as he sat upright in bed, the echo of the voice still ringing in his mind. He shoved aside the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He dressed quickly and stepped out of the room to join John.

The man stood at the bench, rifling through vials of liquids and jars of ingredients.

“Oh good, you’re up. I got you some water,” John told him. “You didn’t bathe last night.”

“Sorry,” Stiles said quietly, rubbing his eyes lethargically.

“Help yourself to breakfast,” John said, nodding towards the bowl of porridge that sat on the table.

“Thank you,” Stiles said quietly, sitting down at the table. He picked up the spoon, eating the porridge without another word.

John glanced over his shoulder at Stiles, watching the young man as he set his hand against the side of the water bucket and pushed it off the bench.

Stiles acted without thinking.

He leapt out of his seat, his hand flying out and his eyes lighting up with a golden glow as he froze time.

The bucket stilled, he spilling water suspended in mid air.

Stiles realised what he’d done, glancing at John before releasing the spell and letting the bucket fall to the ground.

The water splashed across the floor, the bucket clattering as it hit the tiles.

“How did you do that?” John asked. “Did you incant a spell in your mind?”

“I don't know any spells,” Stiles told him.

“So what did you do? There must be something.”

“It just happened.”

Stiles hurried across the room, grabbing the mop from where it leant against the wall behind the door. He began to mop up the water when John reached for the broom, halting Stiles.

“Well, we'd better keep you out of trouble. You can help me until I find some paid work for you,” John said. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stiles. “Here’s some errands I need you to run.”

Stiles nodded, glancing down at the list before sliding the piece of paper into the pocket of his jacket. He grabbed a slice of bread and slung his satchel over one shoulder before heading for the door.

“And Stiles,” John called after him, making the young man pause. “I need hardly tell you that the practice of any form of enchantments will get you killed.”

Stiles nodded, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway.

He made his way through the markets, stopping at a few of the stalls to buy the things John had listed.

Children ran through the streets, laughing as they wove their way through the crowd.

Above all the chaos and the noise, Stiles heard a voice that caught his attention.

“Where's the target?” he heard a man ask, turning to see a man dressed in gleaming armour standing by the walls that overlooked a field.

The man had thick black hair and a soft beard that cast a shadow across his jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale, the colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused. His expression was composed and stern.

“There, sir?” the servant said, unsure of himself.

“That's into the sun,” the man said.

“It's not that bright.”

“A bit like you, then,” the man replied. He nodded to the old wooden target. “Move it.”

The servant nodded, stepping over to the heavy wooden target and hoisting it up.

Stiles’ eyes drifted back to the man giving orders. A coy smirk lifted the corners of his mouth as he whispered something to one of the men standing beside him.

A glint of silver caught Stiles’ eyes as the man lifted something above his head and threw it.

There was a heavy thud as the knife’s blade stuck into the target.

Bullseye.

The servant looked up at the man, his eyes wide with terror.

“Don't stop,” the man ordered. “I told you to keep moving.”

The servant was frozen, looking at him in shock.

“Come on,” the man in armour said teasingly, drawing another throwing knife from his belt and lifting it up. “Run.”

He threw the knife, the blade striking the target near centre. He was quick to grab another, hurling it as the servant began to run back and forth.

The servant tripped, dropping the target as the fell to the ground.

The wooden wheel rolled to a stop at Stiles’ feet.

“Come on, that's enough,” Stiles said, keeping his voice level and calm.

“What?” the man in armour asked, surprise breaking through his composure as he took a step towards Stiles.

“You've had your fun, my friend.”

“Do I know you?”

“I'm Stiles,” he introduced himself.

“So I don't know you,” the man in armour replied.

“No.”

“Yet you called me ‘friend’.”

“That was my mistake,” Stiles replied.

“I think so,” the man replied.

“Yeah. I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass.”

“Or I, one who could be so stupid,” the man replied without missing a beat. “Tell me, Stiles, do you know how to walk on your knees?”

“No,” Stiles replied.

“Shall I help you?”

“I wouldn't if I were you,” Stiles said warningly.

“What are you going to do?” the man asked.

“You have no idea.”

“Be my guest,” the man challenged, taking a step back and holding his arms open wide. “Come on.”

Stiles balled his fist and swung, but the man’s reflexes were too fast. He caught Stiles’ fist and jerked the man’s arm behind his back.

Stiles let out a grunt of pain, gritting his teeth. He felt the burning rage of his power prick at his eyes.

“I'll throw you in jail for that,” the man said.

“Who do you think you are, the king?” Stiles growled.

“No,” the man replied calmly. “I'm his son. Derek.”

Stiles was hurled into the cell, his body hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

The guards slammed the cell door shut, the sound ringing in his ears long after they were gone.

The floor was covered in straw and the walls were cold and damn, rivulets of water trickling down the uneven surface. It smelt of mould and faeces, the rancid stench burning his nostrils.

He let out a heavy sigh, slumping back against the rocky cell wall. He pressed his head back against the stone, letting his eyes drift shut.

He must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he remembers is the voice in his head.

 _Stiles_.

He bolted upright, kicking about as he staggered to his feet.

The only sound that greeted him was silence.

There was a heavy clang as someone opened the door upstairs.

“Stiles,” John’s voice rang out, not angry, but rather disappointed. “You never cease to amaze me. The one thing that someone like you should do is keep your head down, and what do you do? You behave like an idiot.”

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said quietly.

“You're lucky,” John said firmly, nodding towards one of the guards, who unlocked the heavy iron cell door and held it open. “I pulled a few strings to get you released. Now, let’s go.”

Stiles followed him out of the cells and through the main square, following him in silence.

They returned to John’s quarters.

“I know you're angry with me,” Stiles started slowly.

“Your mother asked me to look after you,” John said, irritation adding an edge to his voice.

Stiles dropped his gaze, looking down at his feet.

John let out a heavy sigh, his voice dropping to its usual calm, level tone as he asked, “What did your mother say to you about your _gifts_?”

Stiles paused for a moment. “She just said that I was special.”

“You are special,” John said. “The likes of which I have never seen before.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked.

“Well, magic requires incantations—spells. It takes years to study,” John said. “What I saw you do was elemental—instinctive. Your magic is part of your nature, your being.”

“What's the point of it if it can't be used?” Stiles asked, looking away again.

“That I do not know.”

“Did you ever study magic?” Stiles asked.

“The king banned all such work twenty years ago,” John replied, avoiding the question.

“Why?”

“People used magic for the wrong reasons,” John explained. “It threw the natural order into chaos. Alexander made it his mission to destroy everything from back then—even the dragons.”

“All of them?”

“There was one dragon he chose not to kill,” John said. “Instead, he kept it as an example. He imprisoned it in a cave deep beneath the castle where no-one can free it.”

“I thought that was just a tale,” Stiles said. “A story you tell your kids at night.”

“All tales have some truth behind them.”

Stiles made his way through the marketplace, making his way down the street and past stalls. He buried his hands in the pocket of his jacket.

He glanced around, his eyes falling on the young man walking towards him—dark hair, pale aventurine eyes, and a cocky smirk on his face.

Prince Derek.

He hadn’t seen Stiles.

Stiles dropped his head, staring down at his feet as he passed the prince and his posse.

The prince stopped in his tracks, turning back to look at Stiles as he walked by.

“How's your knee-walking coming along?” the prince called after him, his voice teasing.

Stiles bit his lip, walking on as if he hadn’t heard him.

“Oh, don't run away,” Derek said, feigning pleading.

Before he could stop himself, Stiles turned around to face the prince, raising an eyebrow.

“From you?” Stiles asked.

“Ah, thank God,” Derek said, taking a step towards Stiles. “I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.”

“Look, I've told you you're an ass,” Stiles said. “I just didn't realise you're a royal one.”

A look of surprise passed over the prince’s face as an amused smile played with the corners of his lips. He took another step toward Stiles.

“What are you going to do? Get your daddy's men to protect you?” Stiles asked, nodding to the guards and the knights who stood behind the prince.

“I could take you apart with one blow,” the prince boasted.

“I could take you apart with less,” Stiles replied.

“You sure?” the prince asked. He tossed the wooden sparring pole in his hand to Stiles, chuckling as the boy fumbled but caught it.

Derek reached behind himself as one of the knights passed forward their sparring staff.

“Come on, then,” Derek challenged, swinging the pole around.

Derek juggled it in his grasp, the pole flipping over the back of his hand and nimbly woven between his fingers.

“I should warn you, I’ve been trained to kill since birth,” the prince boasted.

“Really?” Stiles said, feigning awe. “And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

Derek caught his staff, stilling the pole as he stared at Stiles, shocked. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“My apologies,” Stiles said, correcting himself. “How long have you been training to be a prat, _my lord_?”

An amused smirk turned up the corners of Derek’s mouth.

Without warning, he swung at Stiles.

Stiles ducked, the staff swinging over his head. He staggered backwards, trying to regain his balance.

Derek advanced, keeping Stiles moving back as he continued to swing the pole around. He swung at Stiles again, cutting downwards.

Stiles dodged to the side at the last second, the staff crashing agaisnt the wooden bench of a nearby stall.

Stiles spun his around, swinging the pole upwards and smacking the side of Derek’s face with the side of the pole.

Derek staggered back, stunned as he rubbed his cheek with one hand.

His eyes honed in on Stiles, a mix of surprise, admiration and burning rage filling the pale depths.

Derek quickly countered Stiles’ attack, swinging his pole and slamming the end of the staff into Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles let out a pained yelp, his staff falling from his grasp. He stumbled slightly as he tried to dodge another attack, but Derek swung the staff low, knocking Stiles’ feet from under him and leaving him to tumble to the ground.

Derek stood over him, his smile menacing as he looked down at Stiles.

“You're in trouble now,” Derek said.

Derek swung the staff over the back of his hand, tauntingly.

Stiles’ eyes darted around the space.

Above the prince, loops of rope hung from the overhead beams.

Derek adjusted his grip on the staff, holding it like a spear—ready to strike Stiles. He lifted his arm.

The glow of Stiles’ eyes was lost in the sunlight.

The loops of rope entangled themselves around the end of Derek’s staff, stopping him.

“What the—?” Derek muttered, looking up at the entangled rope.

Stiles rolled aside, his feet pedalling beneath him as he scrambled upright. He grabbed his spear from where it had been knocked aside, turning and holding it up in time to block Derek’s blow.

Derek raised an eyebrow, surprised.

The prince swung again.

Stiles blocked it, taking another step back as her struggled to match the prince’s blows.

Derek swung downwards again.

Stiles held the staff up, blocking the prince.

A devilish glint darkened Derek’s eyes, a coy smirk turning up the corner of his lips. He moved too fast for Stiles to counter, slamming the end of the staff into Stiles’ stomach and knocking him back before swinging and smacking Stiles across the face.

There was a sickening crack as the staff collided with Stiles’ cheek, knocking the young man to the ground.

Stiles hit the dirt with a heavy _thud_ , gasping for air

Tears welled his eyes, blurring his vision into streaks of light and colour. Rising bile burnt at his throat as he struggled to swallow.

Two guards stepped forward, grabbing Stiles by his arms and hauling him to his feet.

“Wait,” Derek called out.

He guards froze.

“Let him go,” the prince instructed. “He may be an idiot, but he's a brave one.”

The guards did as they were ordered.

Stiles staggered slightly, no longer held up by the guards. He looked up at Derek, his brow furrowed with confusion.

Derek met his gaze, taking another step forward as he looked Stiles over, his aventurine eyes full of curiosity. “There's something about you, Stiles. I can't quite put my finger on it.”

“How could you be so foolish?” John cried out as he stormed across the room. “Not only did you pick a fight with the prince, but you _struck_ him. You do realise that that alone would be enough for the king to have you executed?”

“He needed to be taught a lesson,” Stiles argued.

“You can’t just go around picking fights, Stiles—especially not with your powers. Magic must be studied, mastered, and used for good,” John said. “Not for idiotic pranks and petty feuds.”

“What is there to master?” Stiles asked. “I could move objects before I could talk.”

“Then you should know how to control yourself.”

“I don't want to!” Stiles shouted, his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths. “I’m one-hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. My magic is my only defence.” Stiles paused, swallowing hard. “If I can't use magic, what have I got?”

John didn’t reply—he couldn’t; he didn’t have an answer.

“I'm just a nobody,” Stiles said, dropping his gaze to hide the glistening tears that welled in his eyes. “And I always will be… If I can't use magic, I might as well die.”

Stiles turned and stormed into his room, shutting the door behind him.

The old door rattled on its hinges as John carefully nudged it open and stepped into the room, carrying in a bowl of water, a rag, and some bottles of ointments.

Stiles lay across his bed, unable to move—not wanting to. Every inch of his body hurt. He could feel the welts and bruises forming under his shirt.

“Stiles, sit up,” John said softly. He set the basin down on the small table by the bed and sat down beside Stiles.

The young man sat up, groaning at the effort to move.

“Take your shirt off,” John encouraged, soaking the rag in the water before ringing it out. He turned back to Stiles, freezing for a moment as he noticed the young man’s back. There were angry red welts, patches of torn skin and abrasions and smears of black, blue and purple bruises across his skin. But he felt his heart drop into his gut when his eyes fell upon the pale pink scars that covered his pale flesh.

Stiles stared forward, not speaking.

John let out a soft sigh, gently cleaning the young man’s wounds before opening the bottles of ointment and smearing it across some of the more serious ones.

“You don't know why I was born like this, do you?” Stiles asked, his voice quiet but loud enough to disturb the silence.

“No,” John answered honestly.

“I'm not a monster, am I?”

There was a hint of fear in his voice that made John freeze. He drew his hand back, shifting on the bed to look Stiles in the eye.

“Don't _ever_ think that,” he said, his voice firm but soft.

“Then why am I like this?” Stiles asked.

“I don’t know… Maybe there's someone with more knowledge than me,” John offered.

Stiles turned away from him, his chocolate brown eyes darkening with despair. “If you can't tell me, no-one can.”

The hooves of the horses pounded the ground, the metal horse shoes clattering against the cobblestone streets as the group rode into the kingdom, slowing to a halt before the welcoming party on the steps of the castle.

One of the knights dismounted, stepping over to the lady who rode beside him and helping her down from her horse.

The woman wore a dark purple velvet dress, the long skirt billowing around her legs. The fitted front of the gown was embroidered with fine beads and gemstones that were sewn into the pattern of twirling vines, leaves and budding flowers. A dark hooded coat was pinned around her shoulders, a shimmering broach holding it together. She pushed back the hood of her coat, revealing the waves of long, dark curls that cascaded down her back.

“Lady Blake,” King Alexander greeted, bowing politely before approaching the young woman. “Welcome to Beacon Hills.”

The young lady curtsied in return, her dark eyes shimmering as she offered a sweet smile as she stepped over to the king’s side. “It is a pleasure to be here, my king.”

“I trust your journey was not unpleasant.” The king held out a hand, letting her take it and leading her towards the steps of the castle.

“Not at all,” Lady Blake replied, smiling sweetly.

“May I introduce my ward, Laura,” the king introduced, gesturing towards the young woman on the steps.

Laura nodded curtly, offering the lady a kind smile.

“My son, Derek,” the king said, gesturing to his son.

Derek bowed politely.

“And my daughter, Cora,” he finished.

Cora curtsied, staying close to Laura’s side.

“We have prepared a meal for you,” Alexander announced, leading the woman up the stairs and towards the castle doors.

“How thoughtful of you.”

“We offer only the very best for our guests,” the king said. “After all, we want the celebrations tomorrow night to be memorable.”

Something shifted on the woman’s face as she dropped her gaze, looking into the reflection of a puddle at her feet. The smile fell from her face, a steely composure settling in its place as she quietly replied, “They will be.”

_“Stiles.”_

Stiles eyes flew open. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to clear the haze of sleep from his mind.

 _“Stiles_.”

He hadn’t been imagining it—he heard the voice as clear as day.

He sat upright in bed, shoving aside the blankets as he looked around the room, lit by the pale glow of the light from the sun that had not yet crested the horizon.

He pushed back his blankets and climbed out of bed, pulling on his books and struggling on his jacket before stepping out of his room.

The main room was filled with the sound of rumbling snoring from the cot in the corner, where John lay—fast asleep.

Stiles wove his way through the furniture, careful not to make a sound as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

The echo of the voice in his head called to him, leading him across the courtyard and down a passage that led beneath the castle. He made his way through the labyrinth of hallways beneath the castle, until he reached a doorway.

A wrought-iron door blocked the passage, the lock fastened into place.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, checking that no one had followed before holding his hand out. His eyes lit up with a golden glow for just a second as the lock slid back.

He reached for the torch that sat in the metal bracket on the wall, the flickering flame making the shadows dance about the place.

He held the torch up as he looked down the flight of stairs carved out of the rocky earth that led into the abysmal darkness.

He drew in a measured breath and began his decent, the wavering light of the torch lighting his way.

At the bottom of the stairs, the passageway opened up to a large cavern.

Stiles stepped out onto the rocky plateau, shuffling towards the edge as he looked down into the darkness that stretched on below him.

_“Stiles.”_

He jumped, his heart lurching into his throat as his wide eyes darted about the cavern.

“Where are you?” Stiles called into the darkness.

There was a rush of wind, the gust blowing into Stiles.

Stiles lifted his arm, shielding his face from the wind. He squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the flap of wings, the crumbling of rock and the rattling of a chain.

He waited for the wind to die down before slowly blinking open his eyes. He turned, looking at the beast that perched on the rocky mound in the middle of the cavern.

The dragon shuffled slightly on the rocky ledge, its claws digging into the rocks—a few stones crumbled away, echoing through the darkness as the crumbled and fell into the depths of the cavern. A thick silver chain was coiled around the dragon’s hind leg, the shimmering metal engraved with runes. Its golden scales shimmered in the streams of silvery moonlight that filtered into the cave.

“ _I'm here_ ,” the dragon answered, looking Stiles over with its glossy black eyes. “ _How small you are for such a great destiny._ ”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked. “What destiny?”

“ _Your gifts, Stiles, were given to you for a reason._ ”

“So there is a reason,” Stiles said, his heart skipping a beat as a blossom of hope settled in his chest.

“ _Derek is the once and future king who will unite the land of Albion_ , _but he faces many threats from friend and foe alike.”_

“I don't see what this has to do with me,” Stiles said.

“ _Everything_ ,” the dragon answered. “ _Without you, Derek will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion_.”

“No,” Stiles said bluntly. “No, you've got this wrong.”

“ _There is no right or wrong. Only what is and what isn't_.”

“If anyone wants to kill him, they can go ahead,” Stiles protested. “I'll help them.”

“ _None of us can choose our destiny, Stiles_ ,” the dragon said. “ _And none of us can escape it._ ”

“No way,” Stiles objected. “There must be another Derek because this one's an idiot.”

“ _Perhaps it's your destiny to change that_ ,” the dragon replied.

The beast opened its wings, a gust of air whipping at Stiles as the creature took flight, flying as far as the chain that held it would allow.

“Wait,” Stiles called out, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Please, I need to know more. I need answers. Please…”

But the dragon did not return. It did not reply.

He was left standing on the plateau, alone in the darkness.

The ballroom was filled with quiet chatter as delegates from the neighbouring kingdom gathered for the celebrations.

Stiles lingered in the shadows, following John as the man made his way through the crowd, talking to dignitaries and delegates. His eyes drifted across the crowd, falling upon the young man across the room.

Derek.

He wore an elegant black suit, the jacket made of a soft fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern woven into it. The collar of his jacket and the tabs of his shirt collar were adorned with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals. He wore an ash-grey vest with silver stitching, his outfit bringing out the rich colour of his eyes and flattering his features.

Stiles expected him to be joking around with the knights like he did during the day, but instead, he stood aside from the crowd, not talking to anyone.

His little sister, Cora, stood beside him. The young princess looked to be about fifteen-years-old, dressed in an elegant gown made of velvety navy-blue material. The top was drawn into a Grecian neckline and covered in gold lace and beading, and the skirt of her dress was covered in fine gold detailing, beading and lace. Her long dark hair had been pulled back from her face and a band of woven metal made to look like a wreath sat atop her head.

“Please don’t start any fights tonight,” John whispered.

Stiles blinked as he pulled himself back to reality.

“I won’t,” Stiles replied, keeping his voice quiet. “I promise.”

John nodded, stepping over to his place in the corner of the room.

Stiles stood behind him, watching as the chatter of the room fell quiet as the king entered, escorted by his ward, Princess Laura.

She wore a sleek red dress, the top of the dress pulled to a point and held up by an elegant golden chain that looped around her neck. A belt of golden leaves was sewn onto the dress, accentuating her slim waist. A shawl was draped over her forearms, the dark red fabric matching her gown. Her long dark hair had been drawn back and pinned into a bun, a few loose strands framing her face. A circlet of woven gold and rubies on her forehead.

Derek and Cora joined them as the king walked over to the chairs that sat in the centre of the room, stepping up to his seat before turning to look at the others who were gathered.

“We have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity,” he announced. “It has brought the kingdom and myself many pleasures. But few can compare with the honour of introducing Lady Jennifer Blake.”

The crowd cheered and took their seats, their applause dying away and the room falling into silence as they turned their attention to the woman in the fine golden gown standing at the far end of the room.

Jennifer began to sing, the sweet tone of her voice ringing out around the room. It was a song Stiles didn’t recognise, but the melody seemed calming and hypnotic to all those in the room.

A stillness settled over the hall as the woman’s voice filled their ears. Those gathered struggled to keep their heavy eyes open, their eyelids fluttering and falling shut. Heads fell forward, some of the guests leaned against each others, as they were lulled into a sleep. Servants slouched back against eh walls, sinking to the floor.

Stiles looked around, panic spiking his heartbeat as he realised something was wrong. He pressed he pals of his hands to his ears, blocking out the sound of the woman’s voice.

An icy chill rolled through the room, blowing out the candles and plunging the hall into darkness. The only light was the silvery glow that streamed in through the windows, lighting half the woman’s face and letting shadows linger around her.

Cobwebs and dust settled over the room, as if those present had been asleep for a century, not a few seconds.

Lady Jennifer continued to sing, not missing a note as she took a step forward, her eyes fixed across the room.

Stiles followed her gaze, his eyes falling on Derek.

The young prince sat in his seat, his head lulled to the side and his expression softened by sleep.

Stiles looked back and forth between Derek and Jennifer, watching as the woman continued to walk towards the prince.

Jennifer drew a knife from under the gusset of her gown. She held the gleaming silver blade in her finger tips and raised it above her head, ready to throw.

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide.

His eyes darted up to the chandelier that hung over the woman.

His eyes lit up with a golden glow as he focused his power.

The chain shattered.

The chandelier fell, a thundering crash filling the hall as the woman was crushed.

Stiles froze, staring across the hall at the woman’s still body. He stomach twisted in knots. Bile burnt at his throat as he struggled to swallow against the lump in his throat.

He slowly lowered his hands from his ear.

The guests bean to wake, the hall filling with quiet mutters as they stirred.

Derek blinked his eyes open, pushing himself upright. He reached over to his little sister, brushing the cobwebs away from her face and looking at her with concern.

The king’s eyes widened in shock as he looked at the fallen chandelier. He rose from his seat, looking down at the woman.

The illusion was broken—the woman’s umber hair was streaked with grey and her face worn with age. Her body lay still, unmoving, the knife lying by her hand.

Stiles had seen her before, he recognised her face—the woman had been crying at the execution.

The king seemed to recognise her too.

The woman stirred, lifting her head. She choked on her breath as she tried to push herself upright. She grabbed the knife and hurled it.

Stiles’ acted without thought. His eyes lit up, slowing time as he sprinted across the room. He grabbed Derek, tackling the young man to the floor. Time returned to normal as they fell to the ground with a painful grunt.

There was a loud _thunk_ as the blade tore through the solid mahogany of the chair.

The witch let out one last breath before collapsing back against the floor. Her body fell still, her dark eyes clouded and lifeless.

Stiles pushed himself upright, looking at the young prince that lay on the floor beside him.

Derek pushed himself up on his elbows, staring in horror as his eyes drifted from the witch lying beneath the fallen chandelier and the point of the blade that jutted out the other side of the chair. He turned to Stiles, looking at him as if seeing him in a new light, but Stiles’ eyes were still on the witch.

Laura and John rushed over to their sides, helping the two of them to their feet.

The king stepped over to Derek’s side, looking his son over before turning his attention to Stiles, his eyes full of gratitude. “You saved my boy's life. A debt must be repaid.”

“Oh, um,” Stiles stammered over his words as he struggled to find an answer.

“Don't be modest. You shall be rewarded,” the king said.

“Really, you don't have to, your majesty.”

“No, this merits something quite special,” the king insisted. “You'll be awarded a position in the royal household.”

Stiles blinked in surprise.

“You shall be Prince Derek's manservant,” Alexander announced.

“Father,” Derek protested, shocked, but his objections were drowned out by the applause of those gathered in the room.

Stiles glanced across to John, the man smiled back at him.

Stiles sat alone in his room, watching the candle flicker.

The old hinges on the door groaned as John entered, carrying something wrapped in a velvety red cloth.

“It seems you're a hero,” John said, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Hard to believe, isn't it?”

“No,” John told him. “I knew from the moment I met you. You saved my life, remember?”

“But that was magic,” Stiles argued.

“Now it seems we've finally found a use for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw how you saved Derek's life,” John told him. “Perhaps that's its purpose.”

“My destiny,” Stiles muttered.

“Indeed.” John sat down beside him, holding out the bundle of soft red velvet.

Stiles took it,

“This book was given to me when I was your age,” John told him. “But I have a feeling it will be of more use to you than it was to me.”

He carefully unwrapped the folds of fabric to reveal a book—old and bound in aged leather. The cover was adorned with metal studs and gold leaf lettering.

He opened the book, looking through the wrinkled, discoloured pages that were worn with time. He looked at the lettering and ink that covered the pages, but something struck him.

“This is a book of magic,” Stiles said.

“Which is why you must keep it hidden,” John encouraged.

“I will study every word,” Stiles promised, struggling to hide his excitement.

A loud knock at the front door startled them.

“Stiles,” a guard called from outside the door. “Prince Derek wants you right away.”

“Your destiny's calling,” John teased. “You'd better find out what he wants.”


	2. The Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beacon Hills is hosting the annual sword fighting tournament. Knights from throughout the realm have come to compete, including Sir Jackson Whittemore.

They stood on the open stretch of lush emerald green grass in front of the castle grounds where the knights would train.

Derek was dressed in his standard armour; the chainmail catching the light of the day and the metal pauldron strapped in place on his shoulder shifting as he stretched. He held his sword in his grasp, spinning it around as he mimed movements.

Stiles was dressed in his usual attire: a pair of pants, a loose faded blue shirt and a pair of boots—the exception to the norm being the steel plate strapped across his chest and shoulder. He held onto a wooden shield that had chipped paint and chunks of wood cut out of the side, and an old helmet that was worn with age, the rivets blackened with time, and the metal dented and buckled from where it had been struck.

He let out a disgruntled sigh as he slid the helmet on over the tousled mess of his chestnut hair.

“Ready?” Derek asked, adjusting his grip on his sword and turning to face Stiles.

“Would it make any difference if I said ‘no’?”

A smug smile turned up the corners of Derek’s mouth.

“Not really,” he replied.

Stiles let out a measured sigh and picked up the sword that sat at his feet. He tightened his grip around the hilt, feeling the weight resting in his hand.

Derek attacked without warning. He lunged forward.

Stiles leapt back, narrowly missing the edge of Derek’s sword. He raised his shield in time to block another blow as Derek swung at him.

“Body,” Derek warned as he swung his sword.

Stiles deflected the blow with his sword, the clash of metal ringing out across the field.

“Shield,” Derek said, swinging downwards.

Stiles raised the shield, blocking the sword.

“Body... Shield... Body…”

Stiles blocked and dodged as many strikes as he could.

“Head,” Derek warned.

“Head?” Stiles repeated, confused.

Derek slammed the side of his sword on top of Stiles’ head; the clang of the metal ringing in Stiles’ ears.

Stiles staggered backwards slightly.

“Come on, Stiles. You’re not even trying,” Derek said, swinging at him again.

“I am,” he objected as he deflected the strike with his sword.

“Again,” Derek ordered. “To the left.”

Stiles blocked it with his shield.

“To the right.”

Stiles dodged the strike.

“Head.”

Stiles ducked.

“Come on, Stiles, I’ve got a tournament to win.” Derek spun the sword in his hand with a flourish. “Shield.”

Stiles raised his shield, but Derek didn’t strike downwards; he swung from the side, his sword crashing against Stiles’ helmet.

Stiles collapsed to the ground, the helmet falling off his head as he winced, his ears winging and his head throbbing in pain. He drew in a breath through gritted teeth.

“You’re braver than you look,” Derek complimented. “Most servants collapse after the first blow.”

Stiles rolled over, pushing himself up onto his elbows and glaring at Derek. “Are you done?”

“That was just the warm up,” Derek said, smiling smugly as he spun his sword in circles with flourish and finesse.

Stiles let out an exasperated groan, flopping back against the blanket of grass.

The door rattled as Stiles weakly pushed it open, dragging his feet into the open room of the physician’s chambers. The pieces of armour that he had worn fell to the ground with a loud thump and a ringing clang.

John looked up from his work, moving the candle away from beneath the small metal bowl of medicine to make sure it didn’t boil over as he turned and walked over to the dinner table. He bowed his head and struggled to hide his smile as he watched Stiles shed the last of his armour and collapsed in his seat.

“So, how was your first day as Derek’s servant?” he asked.

“ _Lovely_ ,” Stiles said, his voice dripping with acidic sarcasm. “It was horrible. I save Derek from being killed and I end up as a servant. How is this fair?”

“I’m not sure fairness comes into it,” John replied. “You never know, it might be fun.”

Stiles scoffed. “You think mucking out the stables is going to be fun? You should hear my list of duties.”

“We all have our duties, even Derek.”

“It must be so tough for him,” Stiles said sarcastically. “All the girls, all the glory.”

“He’s the future king. People expect a lot of him,” John said. “He’s under a lot of pressure.”

“That makes two of us,” Stiles muttered.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better after some rest,” John said softly, setting a bowl of food down before him.

“I can’t. I’ve got to learn all about tournament etiquette by the morning.”

He lifted his head, focusing his eyes on the large hardcover book that sat across the table from him. His irises lit up with a golden glow as he cast a spell. The book slid across the table, the hardcover falling open on the table.

“Oi,” John protested, smacking Stiles upside the head. “What have I told you about using magic like this?”

“If I could feel my arms, I’d use them and pick up the book myself,” Stiles argued.

“Never mind your arms, what do I do if you get caught?”

Stiles paused, his heart sinking into his gut as a sickening wave of fear and anxiety washed over him.

“What would you do?” he asked.

John didn’t reply.

“Just make sure it doesn’t happen,” John said after a moment. “For both our sakes.”

The armoury was dark and quiet, shadows dwelling among the racks of weapons and training equipment. The walls around him were lined with swords, shields, maces, axes, pieces of armour that were beaten and aged and others that shone brilliantly.

Stiles looked down at the pieces of armour, checking the book that lay open nearby as he tried to work out where they went.

“The voiders go on the arms,” someone said.

Stiles jumped, bolting upright with wide eyes as he looked across the armoury to where one of the young knights stood, watching Stiles.

He was a tall man with a rounded face and soft blue eyes. He was dressed in his armour, ready for the tournament; the bold steel making his cheekbones stand out and making his skin seem to have a golden glow. His short brown hair was pushed back from his face and the hint of an amused smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

Sir Jordan Parrish.

Stiles looked down at the voiders in his hand, fitting them over his arms as instructed.

“And the hauberk goes over the chest,” Jordan continued, stepping forward and picking up the steel plated armour. He helped Stiles fit it into place.

“The arms, the chest,” Stiles muttered quietly, memorising the placement of the armour.

Jordan stepped back over to the table, picking up the steel helmet that had been scrubbed, buffed and polished until it shone.

“I assume you know what to do with this,” Jordan teased, offering Stiles a friendly smile as he handed Stiles the helmet.

“Yeah, that’s the only bit I’d worked out,” Stiles admitted.

Jordan let out a quiet chuckle.

“How did you get so good at this?” Stiles asked.

“I’m a knight,” Jordan answered.

“Right,” Stiles said, feeling embarrassed.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” Jordan reassured him. “And I’ll help you learn.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, his voice filled with gratitude.

“Now, let’s get all of that off of you,” Jordan said, helping unfastened a few pieces of the armour. “Derek’s waiting for you.”

Stiles tried his best to hide his frustration as he struggled to fasten the vambrace onto Derek’s lower arm.

“You do know the tournament starts today?” Derek remarked.

“Yes, sire,” Stiles replied, biting back the bitterness that threatened to seep into his voice.

Stiles picked up the next piece of armour, stepping behind Derek as he fitted the gorget around his throat and chest and fixed the buckle.

“You nervous?” Stiles asked, trying to make light conversation.

“I don’t nervous,” Derek replied.

“Really?” Stiles said, somewhat surprised. “I thought everyone got nervous.”

“Will you shut up?” Derek snapped, his voice strained with tension.

Stiles fell quiet. He picked up Derek’s cape from where it was draped over a nearby stand.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he said quietly as he fixed it into place.

“I’m not scared,” Derek growled.

“You are,” Stiles said. “Not of the tournament; of failing. As the future king, you feel as though you can’t fail, because if you do you’ll let your family, your father, and your kingdom down.”

Derek fell silent, dropping his gaze as his hard exterior started to break and his pale aventurine eyes darkened.

Stiles stepped around Derek, picking up his helmet and handing it to the prince.

“I may not know much about tournaments, armour or duelling,” Stiles said softly, “but if I may offer some advice, my lord: forget about the tournament, forget about your father and the kingdom, and just focus on the fight.”

Derek met Stiles gaze, a hint of surprise and astonishment in his eyes as he took the helmet.

Stiles broke his gaze, looking the young prince up and down.

“I think you’re all set,” he said.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Derek asked.

Stiles thought about it, looking at Derek intensely.

“My sword,” Derek reminded him.

“Right, yeah, sorry,” Stiles stammered as he retrieved Derek’s sword from the stand. “I guess you’ll be needing that.”

Derek took the sword from Stiles, turning and walking away.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh of relief. He looked up to see Parrish watching him from across the training grounds. He nodded at Stiles approvingly, his face lit with a proud smile.

Stiles smiled in return, feeling the weight of dread and anxiety lift off his shoulders as he turned and followed Derek towards the tournament grounds.

He stood by the entrance to the grounds, peering around the edge as he looked up at the large stands that encircled the space where the duels would take place. The wooden panels that made the barrier were covered in the bold colours of Hale crest and the flags of Beacon Hills flew high among the stands, the fabric billowing in the wind.

The stands were full of onlookers with a designated box for the royal family; a large throne centred in the middle of it for the king. Laura and Cora sat together in the box, dressed in elegant gowns and talking quietly as the last of the crowd gathered in the seats.

Laura wore a deep blue dress with golden embroidery. A fur shawl was draped around her shoulders to keep out the bitter chill of the cool breeze and a golden necklace sat on her collar bone.

Her younger sister wore a dusty lavender dress with embroidered floral patterns and a deep mauve velvet coat. Her long dark hair was pinned back from her face by beaded hair pins.

The knights lined up before the stands as King Alexander strutted past them, standing on the ground before the stands. He stood proud as he began his speech: “Knights of the realm, it's a great honour to welcome you to the tournament here in the kingdom of Beacon Hills. Over the next three days, you will come to put your bravery to the test, your skills as warriors, and of course, to challenge the reigning champion, my son, Prince Derek.”

The crowd cheered and Stiles saw Derek swallow hard.

“Only one can have the honour of being crowned champion,” the king continued, “and he will receive a prize of one thousand gold pieces.”

He gestured behind him to the chest that sat by the throne. The guard who stood beside the king’s throne opened the chest to reveal the glistening golden pieces.

“It is in combat that we learn a knight's true nature, whether he is indeed a warrior or a coward,” King Alexander added. A somewhat cruel smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he raised his voice and said, “Let the tournament begin!”

The crowd roared with applause.

The knights exited the arena.

Alexander stopped by Derek as the man made his way to the stands. He dropped his voice, speaking to his son in a low whisper as he said, “I trust you’ll make me proud.”

Derek didn’t reply.

Alexander clapped his son on the shoulder before turning to make his way to his seat.

The guards stepped forward to take the knight’s capes. Stiles stepped over to Derek’s side, untying Derek’s cape.

“Forget everything else,” Stiles reminded him, his voice a soft whisper. “You’re a skilled knight and a strong warrior; just focus on the fight and do what you do best.”

Stiles stepped back, folding the cape over his arm.

Derek turned to face him, a hint of gratitude in his eyes as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles nodded slightly to let the prince know he understood.

Derek lifted his helmet over his head, tightening his grip on his sword as he stepped back out into the arena to face his first opponent.

The battle began.

They raised their weapons and lunged forward.

Derek countered his opponent’s attacks and returned a few, the metal of their swords ringing out across the arena as they unleashed a flurry of attacks.

His opponent blocked most of them and dodged others.

The metal of their blades flashed and sparked as they collided.

His opponent blocked one of the Derek’s attacks, ducking under his arm and slamming his boot into the small of Derek’s back.

Derek staggered forward, the crowd letting out a gasp as he dropped to his knee.

His opponent struck down on him.

Derek turned sharply, raising his shield to block the blow. He took advantage of his lowered position and swung his leg out, knocking his opponent’s feet out from beneath him.

The man fell backwards with a crash as his armour struck the ground.

Derek pounced forward, holding his shield to the man’s chest and pinning him in place as he disarmed the man.

The knight conceded, lying weakly against the ground.

The crowd roared with applause at their prince’s victory.

Derek rose to his feet, pinning his sword under his arm as he held his hand out and helped his opponent to his feet.

The man bowed to him before retrieving his weapon and his shield and stepping aside.

Derek turned to face his father, bowing slightly before walking out of the arena. He walked over to Stiles’ side, pulling his helmet off and letting it to fall to the ground as he stood in the shadows of the entrance to the arena and watched the next bout began.

Stiles turned slightly to look at Derek.

Derek glanced out the corner of his eye at Stiles, the faintest hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

Stiles knew he’d never say it—it was below a prince to say “Thank you”—but he knew that’s what that smile meant.

The bouts went on, each fight like the last. Except for one.

Knight Whittemore—dressed in the bold yellow colours of the Western Isles and clutching a shield that was painted with the pattern of three entangled snakes that seemed to take the shape of a triskellion.

“He seems pretty handy with a sword,” Stiles noted, watching the man’s blade crash against his opponent’s sword and shield.

Derek hummed in agreement.

Whittemore won his bout with ease. He exited the arena, stopping by Derek as he said, “My I offer my congratulations on your victory today?”

“Likewise,” Derek replied with a curt nod.

“I hope to see you at the reception this evening,” Whittemore said before walking away.

Stiles and Derek shared a glance and both snorted once the knight was out of earshot.

  
The bright orange glow of the evening light bled in through the large windows of the throne room, casting arched shadows across the wooden floor.

The knights lined up along the length of the throne room as queued up to meet King Alexander and Lady Laura.

Knight Whittemore stepped forward, bowing politely to the king as he introduced himself, “Knight Jackson Whittemore of the Western Isles, My Lord.”

“I saw you fighting today,” the king said. “You have a very aggressive style.”

“Well, as My Lord said, ‘To lose is to be disgraced’.”

“I couldn't agree more.” He gestured to the young lady who stood beside him. “May I present the Lady Laura, my ward.”

“My Lady,” Jackson greeted, his voice soft as he stepped forward, taking Laura’s hand and bowing to kiss it.

Derek screwed up his face, looking away.

“I saw you competing today,” Laura said.

“I saw you watching,” Jackson replied with a coy smirk. “I understand the tournament champion has the honour of escorting My Lady to the feast.”

“That's correct.”

“Then I will give everything to win the tournament.”

Laura smiled and nodded to him.

Jackson nodded back, bowing once again to the king before stepping aside.

Derek stepped forward, bowing to his father.

“Derek,” Alexander said, his voice firm.

“Father.”

Derek shot a glare out the corner of his eye at Jackson before stepping over to his sister’s side.

“They all seem rather impressed by Knight Whittemore,” she said.

“They're not the only ones,” Derek muttered under his breath.

“There’s no need to be overprotective, Derek,” Laura said as her brother joined her at the front of the large hall.

Nevertheless, Derek couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his stomach as he glanced over at Jackson.

The armoury was lit by the glow of early daylight that flowed in through the small window at the top of the brick wall. Swirls of dust danced about in the beam of light as Stiles walked into the empty armoury. He set down the pieces of Derek’s polished armour on the bench.

Among the shadows and quiet, the sound of a hiss rolled around the darkness.

Stiles spun around.

“Hello?” he called into the shadows. He took a step forward toward the shadows. “Is somewhere there?”

There was no reply.

Stiles swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat as he took another step forward. He searched the shadows of the armoury but found nothing except for Whittemore’s shield.

Stiles brow furrowed as he looked closer at the shield, focusing on the head of one of the painted snakes.

The eye blinked.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, lurching into his throat.

He reached out to touch the shield when he felt the flat edge of sword press against his chest. He straightened.

“Can I help you with something, boy?” Jackson said, his voice low.

“No,” Stiles replied. “I’m good. I was just… I was gathering my lord’s armour.”

“Then you’d best be on your way,” Jackson said, not lowering his sword.

“Right,” Stiles said, swallowing hard. He stepped back, turning to collect Derek’s armour and rushing out of the armoury.

Derek looked down at the armour that was laid out across the large mahogany table in his chambers. The polished metal pieces of armour had been set out as they were to be worn.

“You did all of this on your own?” Derek asked, trying to hide the surprise in his voice.

“Yes, sir,” Stiles answered.

Derek nodded. “Now let’s see if you can get me into it without forgetting anything.”

Stiles donned. He stepped forward and started. He put on Derek’s hauberk and surcoat, followed by the gorget, vambraces, pauldron, and couter. Next was his mail coif, his belt and the thick black leather sword belt, his dagger and his sword. Finally, Stiles picked up Derek’s helmet, a proud smile on his face as he turned and handed it to the prince.

“That was much better,” Derek complimented. “Not that it could have got any worse.”

“I'm a fast learner,” Stiles said proudly.

“I hope, for you sake, that's true,” Derek replied, turning to head for the door.

Stiles followed after him, marching down the halls of the castle and out into the open air. They made their way across the training field behind the arena and over to the entrances. 

Stiles looked across at the knight Derek was to fight next. The man towered tall over the others, his plated armour sitting on his broad shoulders like the sheer slate along the side of a mountain. His firm biceps strained against his chainmail and his face never wavered from his menacing look.

“ _That_ ’s who you’re fighting?” Stiles asked.

“He’s as strong as a bear, but he’s slow,” Derek replied.

“And you’re fast,” Stiles added.

“Fast enough to put up a fight,” Derek said confidently.

“Good luck, sire,” Stiles called after him as he watched the young prince step into the arena.

Derek waved to the cheering crowds before facing off against his opponent.

“Is it my imagination or are you beginning to enjoy yourself?” John asked.

Stiles scoffed and screwed up his face.

John let out a low chuckle, turning his attention back to the fight.

Derek countered his opponent’s strikes with ease and grace.

The crowd roared with applause with every strike he made.

Stiles got swept up in the excitement, cheering on the young prince.

Across the arena, Jackson fought the young knight of the court, Sir Rhys.

Jackson had knocked the man to the ground, his helmet clattering as it fell from Rhys’s head and rolled across the ground. Jackson pinned him in place with his shield, leaning forward and keeping his voice low as he said, “Strike him.”

Rhys’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion as he looked up at the man, pushing back against his shield and trying to shift his weight and throw the man off of him.

The painted snakes on Whittemore’s shield began to morph, coming ot life as they pulled themselves free of the painted metal.

Rhys froze, his eyes widening with horror and fear.

“Strike him!” Jackson ordered.

The snake darted forward, plunging its fangs into Rhys’s throat.

Rhys let out a strangled breath.

Jackson balled his fist and slammed it into the knight’s face, knocking him unconscious. He stood up, welcoming the cheers of the crowd as they applauded his victory.

Stiles watched from the entrance, his eyes focused on Rhys’s unmoving body.

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles muttered, unable to take his eyes off of Rhys’s still body; waiting for the young knight to stir, to groan as he pushed himself upright, to move his leg slightly or for his fingers to twitch, but there was nothing.

“He’s not moving,” Stiles pointed out.

John grabbed his medicine bag and hurried into the arena. Stiles sprinted after him, rushing over to the young knight’s side.

A thin stream of blood ran from his nose, trailing across his cheek and dripping onto the dusty ground. His face was ghostly pail and beads of sweat gathered on his brow.

Derek had just finished his bout when his attention was drawn to Stiles and John as they knelt down beside the young knight. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as a wave of nauseating fear gripped his heart. He hurried over to their side.

“Is he alright?” Derek asked.

“We need to get him out of here,” John said quietly, shrugging the strap of his medicine bag over his shoulder as he moved to lift the young knight. “Stiles, give me a hand.”

Stiles helped John lift Rhys off the ground, carrying him out of the arena as Derek stood still, watching on helplessly.

Stiles returned to the physician’s quarters as soon as he had finished his duties for the night, setting aside the pieces of Derek’s armour that he had to polish. He rushed over to where John sat beside Rhys’s still body as he lay on the small cot.

“How is he?” Stiles asked, keeping his voice quiet as if the knight were only sleeping.

“It's strange,” John replied. “Look at this.”

He pulled down the collar of Rhys’s tunic to reveal two red puncture marks in the pale flesh of his throat.

“See these two small wounds? It looks like a snake bite.”

“How could he have been bitten by a snake?” Stiles asked. “He was injured in the sword fight.”

John shrugged. “But the symptoms are consistent with poisoning: slow pulse, fever, paralysis.”

“Can you help him?”

“If it is a snake bite, I'll have to extract venom from the snake that bit him in order to make an antidote,” John explained.

Stiles swallowed hard as he hesitantly asked, “What happens if he doesn't get the antidote?”

“Then I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do for him,” John answered, his voice solemn. “He's going to die.”

Stiles drew in a measured breath, bowing his head. A thought struck him.

“He was fighting Whittemore,” he muttered to himself.

“What's that?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Stiles said as he hurried away.

He hauled open the door and raced into the hallway. He made his way along the torch-lit halls as the setting sun lit the sky with bursts of colour; orange, pink, purple, and blue. He walked around the castle until he reached the guest chambers.

The door to Jackson’s room was left ajar slightly, the flickering light of the lit fire washing across the hallway floor.

Stiles slowed, being as quiet as he could as he crept up to the door an peered in through the opening.

He saw the bold yellow shield with the intertwined snakes propped up on a chair before the fire place.

The sound of footsteps against the marble stone made Stiles’ heart jump. He shrunk further back into the shadows.

He saw Jackson set a small metal cage down on the table. He reached into the cage and pulled out a mouse, holding it by its tail as it squeaked and squirmed.

“Dinner time,” Jackson said as if he were coaxing a child. “Come on.”

Stiles watched as the shield began to morph, the snakes pulling themselves free of the painted metal and reaching up for the mouse.

One of them grabbed it, swallowing it whole.

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath and sprinted away.

Jackson bolted upright, turning sharply to the door that lay ajar.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the halls after Stiles as he ran. He ducked into an alcove, pressing his back against the stone wall as Jackson’s footsteps drew closer.

He held his breath, his pulse beating in his ears like thunder as his heart hammered against his ribs.

He heard Jackson give up the chase, turning around and making his way back to his chambers. He waited until the halls were silent before he pulled himself out of the shadows and hurried back home.

“I've just seen the snakes on shield come alive,” Stiles blurted out as he stumbled through the door. “He's using magic.”

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“The snake ate a mouse—one swallow, straight down,” Stiles insisted. “Sir Rhys was fighting Jackson when he collapsed. It must've been one of the snakes from the shield. I have to tell Derek.”

“Is there any chance you might be mistaken?” John asked, trying to keep his voice level and calming.

“I know magic when I see it,” Stiles replied.

“Perhaps, but have you any proof?”

“You don’t believe me?” Stiles asked, unable to hide the pain in his voice.

“I fear you'll land yourself in trouble. How will you explain why you were in Whittemore’s chambers?”

“What does that matter? He's using magic to cheat in the tournament!”

“But you can't go accusing a knight of using magic without proof,” John said. “The King would never accept the word of servant over the word of a knight.”

“What? So what I say doesn't count for anything?” Stiles asked.

“I'm afraid it counts for very little as far as the King is concerned,” John said solemnly. “That's the way it is.”

“Jackson’s going to fight Derek in the final,” Stiles reminded him. “He'll use the shield to kill him.”

John bowed his head.

“I can’t let that happen,” Stiles said, his voice breaking slightly with frustration and desperation.

John let out a heavy sigh. He shook his head slightly. “Look, Alexander won’t really listen to you or me, but you are right; we can't let Jackson get away with this.”

“But we don't have any proof,” Stiles repeated, sounding dejected.

“If we could cure Rhys, he could tell the King that Jackson was using magic. The King would believe another knight,” John suggested. He turned his attention back ot the young man that lay ing the cot, weak and pail. “But how we get the antidote... well, that's another matter.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and turned to leave.

“Stiles?” John called after him.

The raucous from the council chambers echoed throughout the halls of the castle as the knights celebrated.

Stiles slowed slightly, peering in on the celebrations.

“So Whittemore, do you think you stand a chance of defeating my son?” the King asked.

“He is a great warrior, My Lord,” Jackson replied, his voice lathered with honey and sweetness. “I do hope to be a worthy opponent.”

“You should stay in Beacon Hills after the tournament,” Alexander said. “I could do with more knights like you.”

A cruel smile turned up the corners of Jackson’s mouth as he replied, “I'd be honoured, My Lord.”

Stiles swallowed his disgust as he stepped back from the door and made his way down the hallway. He circled the castle back around to the guests chambers—to Jackson’s room. He reached for the door, rattling the handle but the door was locked.

He glanced down the hallway to make sure no one was near before turning his eyes on the locked door. His eyes lit up with a golden glow and the lock clicked as the bolt slid back.

Stiles pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing the door behind himself.

He kept his eyes on the shield that was proudly propped up on the chair. He side-stepped around the room and over to the rack of weapons. He picked up one of the swords, tightening his grip on the hilt as he stepped towards the shield.

The sound of footsteps outside the room startled him. He turned, his heart pounding in his chest.

He swallowed hard, a flicker of movement catching his eye.

He glanced down at the marble tiles, watching as a shadow morphed into the shape of a snake, poised and ready to strike.

Stiles wheeled around, swinging the sword.

The sharp edge of the steel blade tore through the snake’s flesh, severing its head from its body.

Stiles let out a heavy breath.

The other two snakes pulled themselves few of the shield.

Stiles dropped the sword, ducking down to grab the severed head before sprinting out of the room.

John pried open the mouth of the snake’s severed head, pressing it against the piece of cloth that he had tied over a glass vial. The snake’s fangs pierced the cloth, small droplets of venom seeping into the cloth and dripping down the side of the glass as John drained the venom from the severed head.

As the venom slowed, John set the head aside on a piece of cloth.

He held up the glass vial, looking at the thin pool of venom that had gathered at the bottom of the glass.

“I'll get started preparing the antidote,” John said.

“I’m going to tell Derek,” Stiles said, turning to head back out the door.

“You’ll need this.”

John folded the piece of cloth over the severed snake head and held it out to Stiles.

Stiles took it from him with a thankful smile.

“And Stiles,” John called after him, making him stop and turn back to him. “What you did was very brave.”

Stiles let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, his shoulders relaxing as he looked at the man’s kind face.

Derek looked from the severed snake head to Stiles and back again.

“You… chopped its head off?” he asked sceptically.

Stiles nodded.

“You?” Derek repeated.

“Rhys was bitten by a snake from the shield when he was fighting Whittemore,” Stiles insisted, ignoring the connotations of Derek’s remarks. “You can talk to John if you don’t believe me; you can see the puncture wounds in Rhys’s neck where the snake bit him. Rhys was beating Jackson; he had to cheat.

Derek shook his head. “Jackson wouldn't dare use magic in Beacon Hills.”

“Rhys was pinned under Jackson’s shield,” Stiles pointed out. “No one could see the snake bite him.”

“I don't like the guy, but that doesn't mean he's cheating.”

“John is preparing an antidote to the snake venom right now. When Rhys is conscious, he'll tell you what happened. If you fight Whittemore in the final, he'll use the shield. It's the only way he can beat you.”

Stiles grabbed the snake head from the piece of cloth and held it out to Derek.

“Look at it,” he insisted. “Have you ever seen any snakes like this in Beacon Hills?”

Derek took the severed snake head, looking down at it.

“I know I'm just a servant and my word doesn't count for anything, but I wouldn't lie to you,” Stiles said.

Derek het out a heavy sigh, setting the snake down. He looked Stiles in the eye, his pale aventurine eyes piercing. “I want you to swear to me what you're telling me is true.”

“I swear it's true.”

Derek nodded. “Then I believe you.”

Rhys let out a weak groan as he stirred, blinking heavily as his blurry vision slowly came into focus. He moved his lips slightly, trying to make a sound, but all he could feel was the burning pain that coursed through his veins and the cold sweats that left him shivering.

“Welcome back,” John said as he sat down beside the young man.

“There was a snake on his shield,” Rhys rasped. “It came alive.”

John nodded. “The snake's venom is still in your system.”

Rhys made a weak attempt to push himself upright. “I must warn Derek.”

“Derek already knows,” John reassured him as he gently laid the man back down on the cot. “He's requested an audience with the King. They'll want to talk to you but right now you must rest; you'll need your strength.”

Rhys nodded.

“I need to fetch more herbs,” John said, rising from beside the bed and gathering his satchel. “I'll be right back. Try and get some rest.”

Rhys nodded again, his eyes falling shut slightly.

John tried to be quiet as he left the room, closing the door behind himself.

The only sounds that disturbed the quiet were those of everyday life in the square outside the windows; merchants selling their wares and children playing in the courtyard. But there was another sound, one that sent Rhys’s heart racing.

He opened his eyes in time to see the snake writher across the blanket laid over his chest.

He strained to move but his arms and legs felt like solid rock. He swallowed hard, feeling helpless as the snake reared up and struck.

Alexander entered the courtroom.

“Why have you summoned the court?” he demanded, looking at his son.

“I believe Knight Whittemore is using a magic shield to cheat in the tournament,” Derek told him.

Alexander turned to look at the knight. “Jackson, what do you have to say to this?”

“My Lord, this is ridiculous. I've never used magic,” he objected. “Does your son have any evidence to support this outrageous accusation?”

“Do you have evidence?” Alexander asked.

“I do.” Derek motioned for Stiles to step forward.

Stiles bowed politely as he approached the king, unfolding the piece of cloth and presenting the severed snake head to Alexander.

Alexander looked at the snake head sceptically.

“Let me see the shield,” he demanded.

Jackson nodded courteously as he held out the shield he had brought with him.

Alexander took a step forward.

“Don’t let him get too close,” Stiles whispered to Derek.

“Be careful, My Lord,” Derek warned, drawing his sword as he readied himself to defend his father.

Alexander seemed unfazed, taking another step forward and reaching out to touch the painted snakes.

“As you can see, My Lord, it's just an ordinary shield,” Jackson said, his voice laced with sweetness

“He's not going to let everyone see the snakes come alive,” Derek objected.

“Stiles,” John whispered from the doorway.

Stiles stepped back over to his side.

“Then how am I to know that what you say is true?” Alexander asked his son.

“I have a witness,” Derek replied. “Knight Rhys was bitten by one of the snakes from the shield. Its venom made him grievously ill; however, he has received an antidote. He will confirm that Knight Whittemore is using magic.”

“Where is this witness?” the king asked.

“He should be here,” Derek said, looking over his shoulder at where John and Stiles stood.

Stiles stepped back over to Derek’s side with a solemn look on his face.

“Where's Rhys?” Derek asked.

“He’s dead,” Stiles answered.

“So you have no witness and you have no proof to support these allegations,” Alexander said firmly. “Have you seen Jackson using magic?”

“No,” Derek answered honestly. “But my servant fought one of the snakes from...”

“Your servant?” Alexander objected. “You made these outrageous accusations against a knight on the word of your servant?”

“I believe he's telling the truth,” Derek said firmly.

“My Lord, am I really to be judged on some hearsay from a boy?”Jackson asked, glaring at Stiles.

“I've seen those snakes come alive!” Stiles interjected.

“How dare you interrupt?” Alexander bellowed. “Guards!”

The knights stepped forward, grabbing Stiles by his arms and dragging him towards the doors.

Derek opened his mouth to object, but it was Jackson who spoke first: “My Lord, please.”

Alexander held up his hand. The guards stopped.

“I'm sure he was merely mistaken,” Jackson said, his voice smooth. “I wouldn't want him punished on my account.”

“You see?” Alexander said, looking at his son. “This is how a true knight behaves—with gallantry and honour.”

“My Lord, if your son made these accusations because he's afraid to fight me, then I will graciously accept his withdrawal,” Jackson added, meeting Derek’s eye with a challenging gaze.

“Is this true?” Alexander asked. “Do you wish to withdraw from the tournament?”

“No,” Derek said firmly, meeting Jackson’s glare.

“Then what am I to make of these allegations?” Alexander demanded.

“Obviously there has been a misunderstanding,” Derek said, his voice tense as he bit his tongue. “I withdraw the allegation against Knight Whittemore. Please accept my apology.”

Jackson nodded curly. “Accepted.”

Derek stormed into his chambers, livid with rage.

“I believed you!” he shouted, turning on Stiles. “I trusted you, and you made me look a complete fool. My father and the entire royal court think I'm a coward. You _humiliated_ me!”

“We can still expose him,” Stiles said.

Derek turned his back to Stiles. “I no longer require your services.”

Stiles blinked in surprise. “You're sacking me?”

“I need a servant I can trust.”

“You can trust me,” Stiles insisted—promised.

“And look where trusting you got me,” Derek said, his voice low. “Now, get out of my sight.”

Stiles bowed his head, stepping out of Derek’s chambers.

Stiles held the burning torch above his head, letting the flickering flames illuminate the craggy darkness of the cave beneath the castle.

“Where are you?” Stiles shouted into the shadows. There was no reply. “I came to tell you: whatever you think my destiny, whatever it is you think I'm supposed to do, you've got the wrong person!”

The echo of his voice died away and there was still no response.

He drew in a heavy breath, feeling his body tense with anger.

“That’s all I have to say,” he said, turning back towards the stairs. “Goodbye.”

“ _If only it were so easy to escape one's destiny._ ”

Stiles turned back to see the dragon emerge from the darkness, descending to land on the rocky ledge before the plateau that Stiles stood on.

“How can it be my destiny to protect someone who hates me?” Stiles asked.

“ _A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. Very soon you shall learn that._ ”

“Oh, great. Just what I needed, another riddle,” Stiles said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“ _That your and Derek’s path lies together is but the truth._ ”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Stiles asked, his voice growing louder as his frustration grew.

“ _You know, young warlock, this is not the end. It is the beginning._ ”

The dragon flapped his wings, stirring up a gust of wind as he took off. The heavy chain that bound him clattered and rattled as he flew further into the shadows of the cave.

“Just the beginning,” Stiles muttered to himself

Stiles stepped into Derek’s chambers.

The young prince stood by the window, staring into oblivion with his back to Stiles. He didn’t turn around, but he knew it was Stiles.

“I thought I told you to get out of my sight,” he said, his voice low and firm.

“Don't fight Whittemore in the tournament tomorrow,” Stiles pleaded. “He'll use the shield against you.”

“I know,” Derek replied.

“Then withdraw.”

“Don't you understand? I can't withdraw. The people expect their prince to fight. How can I lead men into battle if they think I'm a coward?”

“Jackson will kill you,” Stiles reminded him. “If you fight, you will die.”

Derek turned.

“Then I will die.”

There wasn’t any anger in his voice, but rather resolution—acceptance.

Stiles shook his head slightly, feeling tears prick at his eyes as his heart broke at the sound of defeat in Derek’s voice.

“How can you go out there and fight like that?” Stiles asked.

“Because I have to,” Derek replied, turning back to the window. “It's my duty.”

The main square was quiet.

Stiles sat on the bottom of the stairs, watching as a few guards walked by on their patrol.

Across the square, Jordan felt his heart break as he looked at the downtrodden young man. He crossed over to Stiles’ side, sitting down next to him on the step.

“Is it true what you said about Whittemore using magic?” Jordan asked.

Stiles nodded.

“What are you going to do?”

“Why does everyone seem to think it's down to me to do something about it?” Stiles asked.

“Because it is. Isn't it?” Jordan said. “You have to show everyone that you were right and they were wrong.”

“And how do I do that?” Stiles asked. He looked up, his eyes drifting across the courtyard to where the carved marble statues of wolves.

He felt a stern determination overcome him. Stiles rose to his feet and made his way across the courtyard. He shoved open the door to the physician’s chambers and made his way straight to his room, locking the door behind himself. He dug out the old leather-bound Book of Magic from where he had stowed it away, flipping through the thumbed-smooth pages as he searched for the spell he wanted.

“ _Bebay odothay arisan quickum_ ," he read, letting the words sit in his mouth for a moment before repeating them, “ _Bebay odothay arisan quickum_."

The deafening roar of the crowd seemed so distant, as if she were submerged beneath water. The muffled sounds were over-ridden by the harsh crash of metal against metal.

She took in the finest details: the sparks that flew as their blades collided; the dent left in the silver plating of her brother’s armour; the thin red stream of blood that ran down his cheek; the plume of dust that rose as her brother fell to the ground.

She watched on helplessly as Jackson pinned her brother to the ground. Derek lay weak, unable to move.

The cheering crowd grew louder and louder.

Laura cried out her brother’s name, but her voice was drowned out among the crowd.

A snake struck.

Laura bolted upright in bed, gasping for breath. Numb tears trailed down her face, her damp cheeks cooled by the late evening breeze.

“Derek,” she whispered.

Her hands shook as she pushed back her blankets and stepped over to the window. She looked down into the square below where Derek practiced.

She closed her eyes for a second, another tear falling past her lashes and trailing down her cheek.

As dawn broke the next day, there was an unsettling quiet over the kingdom.

Laura gently pushed open the door to Derek’s chambers, stepping inside and crossing over to where her brother stood by the window—staring into oblivion as his serving boy helped him with his armour.

The serving boy looked up, bowing to Laura before stepping aside.

Laura set her hand on her brother’s shoulder.

He started to turn around but her soft voice halted him.

“Let me,” she offered, helping him fix the strap of his gorget and secure his vambrace.

“I used to help my father with his armour,” she said. “And our mother.”

She stepped back and picked up his helmet, handing it to him.

“Thank you,” Derek said quietly.

He turned to leave.

“Derek,” Laura called after him, her quiet voice halting his step. “Be careful.”

Derek nodded. He offered her a comforting smile as he said, “I’ll see you at the feast.”

He made his way out of the castle, hiding his insecurities behind stern composure. He marched out of the palace and into the arena.

Jackson was waiting for him, standing confidently before the crowd. He bowed courteously to Derek.

Derek bowed in return before fitting his helmet over his chainmail coif and readying himself to fight.

Stiles sat on the floor by the end of his bed, his head slumped forward and the leather-bound book of magic lying open in his lap. HIs lips moved slightly as he sleepily repeated the words.

The door to his room flew open, the loud crash startling him awake.

“Derek’s fighting Whittemore,” John said, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, pushing past John and sprinting out of the room.

He sprinted down the hallway and across the courtyard, running across the training field and into the shadowed entrance that led into the arena. He staggered to a halt, clinging to the shadows as he watched the fight.

Derek countered his blows, moving with grace and speed as he dodged Jackson’s sword and fighting back with strength and determination. Swung upwards, catching the edge of Jackson’s helmet and knocking it lose. He slammed his shield into the knight’s face, knocking his helmet off.

Jackson staggered back, regaining his footing as he glared at Derek.

Derek pulled his open helmet off, holding his composure as he tossed it aside. He tightened his grip on his sword and readied himself. He lunged forward, their swords clashing together as the clang of metal rang out through the air.

“Come on,” Stiles whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched.

Jackson blocked Derek’s sword with his shield, swinging his leg around and kicking Derek’s feet out from beneath him. He slammed his sword into Derek’s chest, knocking him to the ground. He stepped on Derek’s shield, pinning his arm to the ground.

Derek bit his lip, stifling his cry of pain as he quickly reached over and pulled the straps off, freeing his arm. He rolled aside in time to dodge Jackson’s blow. He grabbed his shield and regained his footing, ignoring the deafening roar of the crowd.

Jackson swung upwards, the edge of his blade catching Derek’s vambrace and sending a wave of searing pain through his arm.

Derek’s sword fell from his hand.

Jackson pushed Derek backwards, pinning him against eh wall of the arena.

Derek shoved the knight off him, regaining his footing as Jackson stumbled back intot he open space of the arena.

Stiles took the opportunity. He focused all his energy, feeling the warmth of his power grow as his eyes lit up with a golden glow. “ _Bebay odothay arisan quickum_."

The snaked pulled themselves free of the pained metal.

The crowd gasped with surprise.

“What are you doing?” Jackson hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes darting from the prince ot his shield and back. “I didn’t summon you.”

“He is using magic,” King Alexander said, astonished.

“And now they see you for what you really are,” Derek said.

Jackson’s shock faded as his eyes burned with rage. A look of steel composure settled over his face. He let out a low chuckle, holding his shield out as the snakes pulled themselves free of the shield and fell to the ground.

“Kill him,” Jackson ordered.

Derek leapt aside as the snaked lunged at him.

Laura felt her heart lurch into her throat. She turned, grabbing the sword of the knight that sat next to her.

“Derek!” she shouted, throwing the sword to her brother.

He caught it, swinging it around and slicing through the snake that charged him.

Jackson swung at him. Derek blocked it, slamming his foot into the knight’s gut and knocking him backwards. He swung his sword with a flushing, beheading another one of the snakes. He dodged aside in time to miss the third snake, sliding the creature in half before turning back to Jackson.

The man charged at him.

Derek held his arm up, using his vambrace to block the knight’s blow before running him through with his sword.

Jackson let out a gurgled gasp, his eyes growing wide as he looked at Derek.

Derek met his gaze, his composure unwavering. He let go of the hilt, letting Jackson fall back, his body hitting the ground with a sickening _thud_.

He lay still, lifeless.

The crowd cheered.

Derek turned, bowing to his father and glancing at his sister.

Laura let out a relieved sigh and smiled.

Derek smiled in return, turning to exit the arena. He slowed as he stepped over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles swallowed hard, his heart racing and his body stiffening as he readied himself for Derek to shout at him to get out of his sight, to shove him aside—but he didn’t.

Instead, Derek offered him a slight smile, gently clapping him on the shoulder as he made his way out of the tournament grounds.

The great hall was decorated with tapestries and candles. Mahogany tables were set up around the room with seats for the courtiers.

The guards that stood by the grand double doors, stepped aside, holding them open as Derek entered dressed in his chainmail, the colours of Beacon Hills, and a cape that was fastened around his neck by a grand golden buckle. A thick silver circlet sat around his head, adorned with small gems; bold blue sapphires and jade that matched the rich blue of the kingdom’s colours.

“My honourable guests.” King Alexander’s voice rang out through the open space of the hall. “I give you Prince Derek, your champion.”

Derek turned slightly and held his arm out as his sister stepped over to his side.

“My Lady,” he said, bowing his head courteously.

She was dressed in flowing black gown that was decorated with small diamantes and glittering silver thread that was sewn into patterns that charted constellations across the fabric around the hem of her dress. The dark fabric of the dress had a fine sparkle to it that made the colour of the dress change and shimmer like the night sky, the small gems glittering like fireflies and twinkling stars in a pool of onyx. Her long dark hair was pinned back from her face by a diamond-encrusted hairpin.

“My champion,” she replied teasingly.

She smiled sweetly as she took her brother’s arm, letting him walk her into the great hall.

“Has your father apologised yet for not believing you?” Laura asked, keeping her voice quiet enough so that only Derek would hear.

“He'll never apologise,” Derek replied. “I hope you're not disappointed that Knight Whittemore is not escorting you.”

“Turns out he wasn't really champion material,” Laura said.

“That was some tournament final.”

“Tell me about it. It's not every day a girl gets to save her prince,” Laura teased.

“I wouldn't exactly say I needed saving,” Derek stammered. “I'm sure I would've thought of something.”

“You're too proud to admit you were saved by a girl?” Laura scoffed.

“I wasn't.”

Laura levelled him with a look. “Whatever you say, little brother.”

Derek couldn’t help but smile fondly at her.

Laura returned the smile.

Derek escorted her to her seat, bowing politely before stepping over to his place.

King Alexander began his speech.

Derek took a step backwards, stepping closer to where Stiles stood by the wall.

“I wanted to say I made a mistake,” Derek said quietly. “It was unfair to dismiss you, especially the way I did.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles replied. “You can buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.”

“I can’t be seen buying my servant a drink,” Derek objected, letting out a quiet breathless laugh.

“Your servant? You sacked me.”

“And now I’m rehiring you,” Derek said.

He paused for a moment, listening to his father’s speech.

His voice grew quieter, more sincere, as he said, “Stiles, I… I appreciate everything you did for me. I owe my victory to you.”

“No, you don’t,” Stiles relied. “You did this.”

“Not alone,” Derek admitted, glancing at Stiles and Laura.

“You were never alone.”

Derek looked over his shoulder at Stiles, his pale aventurine eyes filled with emotion.

Stiles offered him a kind smile as he added, “And you never will be.”

Derek returned the smile, his eyes filled with gratitude as he turned away, stepping back to his place at the table.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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